


A Hint Of Wanting

by FictionPenned



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, First Meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27054385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: “Doctor?” Yaz asks.It is more a call over her shoulder than a call to the intruder, but the strange woman straightens with a swift naturalness as if she was responding to her own name. She runs an appraising gaze over Yaz — a flick from head to toe and then back again — before smug contentment tightens the corner of her lips.“I can be, if you like.” Her voice has an element of cunning to it, as well as an excess of confidence. Not only is she in a place where she’s not meant to be, she is comfortable in it.Written for Little Black Dress Flash Exchange 2020.
Relationships: Yasmin Khan/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19
Collections: Little Black Dress Flash 2020





	A Hint Of Wanting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



Yaz is unused to seeing strange faces in the TARDIS.

To hear the Doctor tell it, the TARDIS' doors are impenetrable. Nothing can get in or out unless it’s explicitly invited or it’s been given a key, and there are precious few keys in existence. Apparently, it isn't that the Doctor’s lost them over the years or that she gives them out willy-nilly or anything, rather, it is just rather _difficult_ to forge a TARDIS key these days. Yaz believed this claim. In fact, Yaz _usually_ believes the Doctor's claims, except for the scattering occasions when she’s blabbering on about water polo games with Mark Twain, so when Yaz steps into the control room and sees a rather small, attractive brunette running affectionate fingers over the controls, her brow furrows with confusion, curiosity, and, perhaps, a hint of _wanting_. This should be impossible, and yet, here she is.

For a moment, Yaz hesitates, fingers tightening into a nervous fist deep in the pocket of her jacket. Perhaps it might be smarter to run away or call for back-up from her friends, but although this strange woman practically radiates power, she does not _look_ particularly dangerous. Interest and reckless curiosity work together to override Yaz's fear, and she takes another step forward.   
  
“Doctor?” Yaz says. It is more a call over her shoulder than a call to the intruder, but the strange woman straightens with such swift natural fluidity that almost seems as if she is responding to her own name. She runs an appraising gaze over Yaz — a flick from head to toe and then back again — before smug contentment tightens the corner of her lips.

“I can be, if you like,” the strange woman replies. Her voice has an element of cunning to it, as well as an excess of confidence. Not only is she in a place where she isn't meant to be, she is _comfortable_ in it.

Yaz shifts her weight from foot to foot, running a nervous tongue over her lips before she says, “I’m sorry?”

“The Doctor, of course. I’ve pretended to be the Doctor before. I’m quite good at it, if I say so myself.” The brunette circles the the console, running a delicate hand across its edge, stopping only to tug on the lever that releases a custard cream from a chute. She pauses mid-step at the unexpected noise, looks down at the treat, and laughs. “It didn’t used to do that. If I'm remembering right, that used to control the mood-lighting, but it seems as though everything’s been switched around since I was last here…” The stranger's voice trails off slightly as her attention wanders, wide eyes sweeping over the walls, but a quick shake of her head draws her back to the present moment. “It doesn’t matter, really. Things are always changing with the Doctor. It's sort of her _thing_. What with the faces and all.”

The woman gets closer.

Yaz stands her ground.

Mere inches lie between them, and the stranger cocks her head slightly, short hair caressing her bare shoulder with a familiar fondness. Yaz catches her gaze lingering first upon the curve of that shoulder and then upon the exposed and _vexing_ hollow of the woman’s neck. With a blush of ashamed realization, Yaz averts her eyes, however, the woman has already taken note of her interest and met it with her own.

“Oh, that hasn’t changed though, has it?” The words — teasing and flirtatious — spin through the air with scarcely contained pleasure. “Nothing’s more fun to the Doctor than a person who loves the Doctor, and the people who love the Doctor usually like me, too. We’re very similar people, you know. Except I’m human, of course. Well — mostly, anyway. Got a bit complicated towards the end. What do you call a dead woman who isn't dead?”

Yaz’s gaze returns to the stranger’s face, dark eyes hovering on her lips and widening ever-so-slightly as she springs to an embarrassed and embarrassed defense of her actions. “I never said I was —“

"Oh, you didn't have to. Your lot never do." The stranger rises up onto the tips of her toes, planting a small kiss on the Yaz’s cheek.

A warm shiver passes through Yaz, and she finds her body leaning into the gesture — fascinated, curious, alert.

“Who are you?” Yaz whispers, the question reaching a level of near-reverence that she didn’t know she was capable of.

“Oh, _nobody_.” The pleased, enigmatic smile lingers as the woman reaches out a hand to brush a bit of imaginary dirt from the front of Yaz’s jacket. “The Doctor sometimes used to think of me as ‘The Impossible Girl.’ Bit of an unwieldy title, if you ask me. Doesn’t roll off the tongue in the least.” There’s a sigh as her hand falls away, and Yaz is keenly aware of its absence. “But to most people, my name's Clara Oswald.”

“Nice to meet you, Clara Oswald,” Yaz rolls the name around in her mouth, tasting it, evaluating the feel of it on her tongue. It’s a nice enough name, but it doesn’t feel quite as _impossible_ as the shared touch had felt a moment ago. “I’m Yasmin Khan, but my friends call me Yaz.”

Clara’s eyes brighten, full of life and mischief and determination. “Are we already friends, _Yaz_?”

“I expect we could be, if you’re friends with the Doctor. She picks good people, or so I’ve heard, and you seem —“ There’s a breath and a pause as Yaz searches for the right adjective. She fails to find one that isn’t embarrassing.

“I seem what?” Clara nudges.

Yaz continues fishing for an unfruitful moment, before she finally stumbles over a quick and shy reply. “Just alluring, I guess. Walking in here like you own the place and all.”

The enigmatic smirk deepens. “Yes, I suppose I am rather alluring. These lips have snogged Jane Austen, you know. Lovely woman. Tasted like ink and paper and tea cakes.”

“You can taste all of that in a kiss?” Yaz asks, raising an eyebrow, distinctly interested. Truth be told, she's never thought much about what a kiss _tastes_ like, but she finds herself very much imagining what wonders Clara's lips might hold.

Clara hums. “A person can make certain inferences from a kiss, you know.” It is not quite the answer to the question that was asked, a familiar echo of the way that the Doctor often dodges Yaz’s more specific queries, and it raises a flutter of fondness in Yaz's chest. “Would you like me to try?”

It is, perhaps, the oddest come-on that Yaz has ever heard, but still, she nods. Yes, she would very much like to kiss and be kissed by this strange, mysterious figure.   
  
In a moment, Clara’s hands are on either side of her face and their mouths meet in a quiet, contemplative breath. For a moment, the whir of the TARDIS engines is forgotten, drowned out in the sudden rush of blood to the head. It has been quite a long time since Yaz has been kissed like this, held like this, and she thinks, for a moment, that she would very much like to place time on loop, live it again and again until she tires of it. It is a complete and utter delight to be kissed not only by someone _exceptional_ , but by someone who _knows_ that they're exceptional and would very much like to prove it.

“Hmmm,” Clara ponders when they part, the thought pursing her lips ever so slightly in its intensity. “You're a bit hard to pin down, Yaz. I might have to try again.”   
  
It's very much a feigned excuse to kiss again, but Yaz doesn't mind it at all. She doesn't even bother calling the bluff, however, she does take a second to pause and ask, “Do you want to know what you taste like?”

Yaz has a suitable description in mind, she thinks, but Clara merely smiles and shakes her head. “No. I already know what I taste like.”

“And?”

“I taste like the sort of person you want to kiss again, Yasmin Khan.”

She’s right, and they do.

And again.

And again.

 _And again_.

It isn't quite the endless loop that Yaz had in mind, but she supposes that it will make do for now.

And maybe, just maybe, Clara Oswald might be convinced to linger in the TARDIS for a little while longer.


End file.
